One Night with Cinderella Read online

  At times working and living together was a handful. Thus, his day of working from home and not at their corporate offices in Midtown Manhattan. He needed a breather. Of everyone in the family, he hated useless confrontations and arguing the most. He found it tedious.

  His stomach grumbled, and he picked up his phone from where it sat atop his open files on the table. It was nearing lunch and he had skipped breakfast. Rising, he slid his phone in the front pocket of his tailored shirt, moved down the length of the garden and opened the sliding door of the glass wall of the dining room.

  Across the dining room he spotted their housekeeper, Monica, closing the dishwasher and pressing the buttons to turn it on before she briskly walked over to the pantry. He hadn’t seen her moving about the kitchen when he was in the garden, but he wasn’t surprised. She was a great housekeeper, who they all trusted with their home and possessions, but she also made sure not to intrude on their lives. She barely spoke and rarely made eye contact. She was...skittish.

  This morning in the elevator, if she had pressed her body back against the wall any more, she could have melded with it. It’s why he hadn’t bothered with much conversation. He hadn’t been sure she wouldn’t jump out of her own skin if he said too much.

  Five years, and he doubted he’d spoken more than a dozen words to her in all that time.

  Reaching the kitchen, Gabe opened the Sub-Zero to study the many contents for something to feed his hunger. He was almost tempted to prepare his own favorite dish of homemade ravioli stuffed with a mixture of wild mushroom, ricotta and parmesan cheese served in a bisque. Almost. It had been nearly three years since he departed his role as the head chef of the Midtown Manhattan CRESS restaurant. Cress, INC. came first. Gabe hardly ever cooked that much anymore. In fact, no one in the family did. There wasn’t time. Thus, the need for a family of chefs to have a chef on staff to cook for them.

  With the release of a deep breath he acknowledged how much he missed being a chef. That alone was the clearest example of his loyalty to his family and his desire to help his parents further their dreams of a culinary empire.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  He closed the door a bit and looked over his shoulder at Monica, standing in the entry to the pantry. Her eyes were wide with surprise before she looked down at the cleaning supplies she held in her hands.

  “Jillian’s not here, Mr. Cress,” she said, her words rushed. Awkward.

  He frowned. “Jillian? Do I need her permission to enter the kitchen?” he asked sternly, giving her an odd look before turning back to the fridge and removing a container of leftover ginger-lime carrots and another of seared scallops.

  “No...no. Of course not. I just thought you were looking for her. Just...never mind,” she said, shaking her head as she set the supplies on the counter and began walking out of the room.

  Annoyance sparked in him. This is ridiculous.

  “Have I done something to offend you or make you so uneasy around me?” he asked, feeling as if she saw him as a wolf about to jump on his prey.

  Of that, she shouldn’t worry. This shy and reserved woman unable to look him in the eye was hardly his type. He was tempted by fire and confident sex appeal. She appeared afraid of her own shadow.

  Monica whirled, her face filled with her surprise. “Of course not, Mr. Cress,” she insisted.

  Gabe was surprised by the sudden knot in his gut as he eyed the rare show of emotion she displayed. The first he’d seen in five years. It opened her face. Brought life and light to it. And interest. For the first time, he noticed she was pretty. If by instinct his eyes quickly took in all of her. A man studying a woman.

  She favored Zoe Saldana. Medium brown complexion. Long dark brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail that emphasized her high cheekbones and doe-shaped eyes with long lashes. Beneath her black T-shirt and pants, he could tell she was tall and slender but curvy. He even found the flat mole near the corner of her left eye intriguing.

  He wondered just what other emotion she hid beneath the surface. Passion? Desire? Pleasure? Satisfaction?

  How would her face be transformed during her climax? Dazed eyes? Gaped mouth?

  The thought of that caused his heart to skip a beat, as temptation rose with a quickness.

  Easy, Gabe. Easy.

  “I just wanted to make sure I’ve never done anything to make you uncomfortable with me,” he said, setting aside the allure of a subdued woman with hints of fire beneath the surface—a taste in women he had never known himself to have before.

  She looked at him and visibly swallowed over a lump in her throat. “No. Never,” she assured him, her voice soft.

  No. Not soft. Husky. Throaty.

  Well, well, well. Who knew?

  “I don’t want to interrupt your schedule,” Gabe said, crossing the kitchen to retrieve a plate from the glass-paned cabinet she stood beside. “I’m just getting some lunch because I’m working from home today.”

  She stepped back from his sudden nearness.

  He frowned a bit as he looked down at her. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she looked away. She had to be close to his age of thirty-two, so her nervousness piqued his curiosity. “Monica,” he said, his voice low.

  She looked up at him. “Sir?” she said, wringing her hands together in front of her.

  Oh.

  Her truth was in the depths of her doe-shaped eyes.

  Gabe was a man quite familiar with women. As a chef he was a connoisseur of wine, needing the right accoutrement to the food he created. His experience with women reached the same expert level. Standing before him was a woman made nervous because she liked him. Was aware of him. Desired him.

  Of that he was sure.

  His body warmed over at the thought of her interest. He cleared his throat and moved back across the kitchen to plate his food before warming it in the microwave.

  Bzzzzzz.

  He reached for his vibrating phone and checked the caller ID. It was an old acquaintance calling. Felicity. He thought of the tall and shapely beauty with big eyes, lips and thighs, but didn’t answer the call. It had been weeks since they’d spent time together, and he wasn’t interested in striking up a new round of their on-again, off-again dalliance. She’d wanted nothing more than access to his upscale lifestyle, and he’d been satisfied with beautiful arm candy who was very eager to do nothing more than keep a smile on his face. Her first not-so-subtle hint of marriage had cooled his ardor.

  Gabe was as adamant about his success in business as he was about avoiding a serious relationship. His romantic history had proven he was unable to balance the expectations of love and the duties of his career without someone suffering, so he chose the latter, enjoying the prestige, the challenge and the admiration of a father who, like himself, expected nothing but the very best.

  Felicity had unknowingly served as a reminder of the sophisticated and sexy women he favored. Very unlike Monica.

  Not that it mattered. She was a part of the family staff and off-limits.

  He looked over to where she had stood and wasn’t surprised to find the spot now empty.

  That’s for the best.

  The last thing he wanted was to encourage her and then have her be disappointed when nothing came of her crush. He was more interested in her skill at organizing and cleaning his private bedroom suite than having her in it beneath him on his bed as he sated her desire.

  Our desire, he admitted to himself.

  Had things been different—time and place—and had she had a little more flash and sass about her, Gabe knew he would’ve gladly satisfied the craving he saw in her eyes.

  Two

  One week later

  Gabe loosened his black silk tuxedo bow tie, leaving it to hang beneath the collar of his black shirt as he leaned in the doorway of the newest CRESS restaurant. It was the tenth such venture of Cress, I
NC., and as the president of its restaurant division, this was a personal celebration. He’d overseen every stage of its creation from its high-end modern design to its menu of French cuisine, and the selection of the head chef and staff.

  His entire family was gathered in one of the four private rooms of CRESS X, celebrating its grand opening. The champagne had been drunk. The meal savored. The compliments shared, along with some business talk about current plans for the Cress, INC. empire.

  He took a sip of vintage champagne as he looked over the rim of the crystal flute at his brothers.

  Phillip Jr., the eldest son, pressed a warm kiss to the neck of his wife, Raquel, as she rubbed the back of their very sleepy toddler, Collette, stretched across their laps. Whatever he whispered in her ear brought a slow smile to her face.

  Gabe could only imagine, and that made him chuckle into his glass.

  His next eldest brother, Sean, moved about the room with his brandy snifter in hand, in full-charm mode. He hosted several culinary shows produced by Cress, INC., ran with high-profile celebrities and had snagged a spot as one of People’s Top Ten Sexiest Chefs last year. Thankfully his smile and culinary skills were as big as his ego.

  His two youngest brothers, Cole and Lucas, both glanced over at a pretty server moving around the table, touching up everyone’s drinks, before they shared a wolfish smile that revealed they both appreciated her appeal, even though they didn’t dare to act upon it. Although Gabe wouldn’t put it past Cole to defy the rule and enjoy a night in her bed. He seemed to love going left just because everyone else went right.

  Lucas was the youngest Cress son and, hands down, his parents’ favorite. They all knew it and accepted it. These days it wasn’t clear from his chiseled frame that he used to carry an extra fifty pounds from his mother’s indulgence.

  Everyone had long since been assigned a role. Phil, the responsible one. Sean, the star. Cole, the rebel, and Lucas, the fave. Gabe knew he was the good one. The nonproblematic middle child.

  He flexed his shoulders and took another deep swig of his drink.

  Ding-ding-ding.

  The blend of voices and cutlery hitting plates silenced as everyone turned their attention to his father, just having stood and now tapping a fork against his flute. Gabe eyed the tall solid dark-skinned man with broad features and a bright smile.

  “We’ve shared forty years together, my love,” Phillip Sr. began, his English accent thick and his eyes locked on his wife, Nicolette, an olive-skinned beauty whose silvery locks held a hint of her past blond color. “Together we have accomplished so much and we did it with love. Of each other. Of our family. Of enjoying life. Of food.”

  Gabe smiled as his mother reached to slide her hand into his father’s and softly stroke his palm with her thumb.

  “And we passed that love on to our children—our sons. Five,” he stressed, patting his chest in pride.

  The room filled with chuckles.

  From the time they were small, the Cress boys had learned firsthand about food and the best way to cook it. To appreciate its nuances and how varying techniques brought out different results—all delicious. Each of them had trained in their parents’ restaurants and attended culinary school, then traveled different paths to become chefs. All were skilled culinary experts with a love of food that their parents had passed to them through their genes and home training.

  “Tonight, we celebrate yet another success for Cress, INC.,” Phillip said, eyeing his adult children. “An empire that is the greatest manifestation of our two greatest loves. Food and family.”

  Nicolette rose to stand beside her husband. “À la nourriture. À la vie. À l’amour.”

  His mother’s favorite saying in her native French tongue. To food. To life. To love.

  It was painted on the wall above all of her stoves—personal and professional—on the base of every pan in the Cress line of cookware, in the watermark of every letter from the various editors of their culinary magazines. It was also branded on all their online presences and the saying at the end of the cooking shows produced by Cress, INC.’s television division.

  “À la nourriture. À la vie. À l’amour,” they all repeated in unison as they raised their flutes in toast.

  Phillip Sr. and Nicolette shared a kiss and then a few more until they stopped with a reluctance that was clear. He took her hand in his and led her to the small area in the middle of the room, designed in shades of linen and bronze, before pulling her close to him to dance as he softly sang a French love song in her ear.

  Gabe looked at them. He was single and mingling to his heart’s content without a thought of the lasting love his parents shared. Life had long since proven to him that he was a failure at balancing love and his ambition.

  He stopped the pretty server with a polite and distant smile before setting his empty flute on the tray she held. “Thank you,” he said, unbuttoning the single button of his tailored black tuxedo jacket before turning to leave the room unnoticed.

  For him, the night and the celebrating were over.

  He made his way down the hall and then through the front of the house, barely taking note of the contemporary design, high ceilings and lush decor as he left the Tribeca restaurant and made his way to his waiting SUV. The driver left his seat and came around the front of the polished black vehicle to hold the rear passenger door for him.

  Gabe thanked him with a nod and relaxed against the plush leather as soon as he’d folded his body onto the seat. The combination of champagne and the premium cuts of perfectly marbled and aged Miyazaki A5 Wagyu strip steak had been delicious but tiring. He was ready for a little solitude and self-reflection before the family returned from the restaurant and the festivities most likely continued.

  Upon reaching the town house, under the cloak of darkness broken up by towering streetlamps, Gabe jogged up the stately steps and pressed his thumb to the biometric sensor to unlock the wrought-iron door and enter the marbled foyer. The length of the entire first floor was dimly lit with small pockets of light, breaking the darkness of night. With long strides he made his way across the wood floors of the living room through to the spacious chef’s kitchen.

  On top of the island counter awaited a case of champagne and a dozen flutes.

  Whistling, he grabbed a bottle and a flute to carry over to the elevator in the corner. He paused as he stepped on the lift and eyed the rear wall. He remembered that day when he’d walked in and barely noticed Monica standing there with her back pressed against it, as if trying to blend into it. A day like so many others. What was different was later that day, in the kitchen, he saw her—really saw her—for the first time.

  And he had liked what he’d seen.

  Still do.

  He frowned, turning as he held the bottle and glass between the fingers of one hand and pressed the illuminated button for the rooftop with the other. The elevator gently shifted upward as he remembered the look of desire in her eyes and how his heart had raced at the awareness that quiet, reliable Monica had a hidden desire for him.

  The thought of her made his gut clench.

  Her beauty was subtle. Quiet. But once recognized? Not to be denied.

  He released a breath and shifted back and forth in his stance.

  What was most important about Monica Darby was her aptitude at her job as their housekeeper. How she kept her head tucked down and completed her tasks without disturbing their lives or breaking their trust in her. Many times his mother had raved that she was integral to their busy lives, even going above and beyond what was asked. The house ran like a well-oiled machine because of her quietly completed tasks.

  That mattered more than her doe-shaped eyes, heated by the fire of desire.

  Ding.

  The elevator slowed to a stop. With his free hand he opened the gate and stepped out onto the rooftop terrace that spanned the twenty-two-foot width
of the building. The air was calm, not too hot, and the sounds of the city echoed as he moved past the open seating area and around the glasshouse.

  At the sight of Monica leaning against the wrought-iron railing, looking over at Central Park, he paused. A spring wind blew and caused the hem of her floor-length cotton robe to lift a bit. Her hair was loose down her back. There was a hint of a smile at her lips, and the moonlight cast a sweet glow upon her profile as the fairy lights adorning the pergola seemed to twinkle behind her.

  It was a little endearing and magical.

  Like one of those romance movies his sister-in-law, Raquel, loved to watch.

  Monica looked toward him just as he was about to turn, leaving her to her solitude.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Cress,” she said, shifting to face him. “I thought the family was out for the night.”

  Her robe and the high neck of the gown she wore beneath it was all very prim and proper. Very sedate. Very reserved. Very Monica.

  “They are. I’m not. Well, not anymore,” he said, holding up the bottle and flute. “Wanted to enjoy a moment alone before everyone got back.”

  She nodded in understanding. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, tucking her hair behind her right ear as she walked toward him.

  “We launched our newest restaurant, CRESS X, tonight,” he said, surprised at the need to fill the silence.

  Monica glanced up at him with an impish look. “I know,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  Of course she knew. He doubted there was much she didn’t know about everyone in the family. Thus the nondisclosure agreement she was required to sign when she was first hired.